


Once a Ranger

by Regency



Category: Mighty Morphin Power Rangers, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Gen, old fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 09:22:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3129359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Regency/pseuds/Regency
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson was a Power Ranger in his youth.  You never really outgrow that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once a Ranger

**Author's Note:**

> If you're not familiar with the Might Morphin Power Rangers, I'd recommend watching [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AkRvn0pXTiw).

                 He didn’t know why he still had the damned thing, but then it was hardly something he could just give it away.  Tucked among mementos that were of too much sentimental value to touch was John’s old Ranger communicator.  It was in pristine condition, no rust despite the care he’d failed to take with it in the rain and nary a scar or nick from the objects it shared a box with.  The silver faceplate shone when the light hit it, a glorified sundial, reminding John with every encounter of the kid he used to be.  That was part of the reason he’d shoved that box so far into his wardrobe; he didn’t want to remember someone he could never be again.  It was wedged up against his medals and his diploma. He might have still been a healer, but he’d never again be a surgeon.

                All told there were plenty of things John chose not to think of anymore.  He packed up bygone chapters of his life in boxes and considered those stories told.  After all, his mementos couldn’t speak.  If he forgot them, they didn’t bang at the closet doors asking to be thought of once more.  Not out of nightmares, anyway.

                So, John put away childish things and childish dreams and he went on racing across London behind the most brilliant man he’d ever known and pretended it had never been his job to save the world.

                That is, until one day his communicator beeped, and the past knocked.

...

                 _Beep boop beep boop beep boop._

 John lifted his head slowly to look at Sherlock sitting across the room.  The other man was preoccupied with his phone, spidery fingers flying across the touchpad as fast the mind raced.  His fingers moved, but the sound was not from him. _Too faint_ , John thought, and shook his head.  He must have been imagining it.  He returned to his latest blog post about the Mysterious Case of the River Song.  Their client had vanished, but the mystery hadn’t.  Sherlock would be preoccupied with this one for a while yet, even now that it had reached its ultimate conclusion.

                  _Beep boop beep boop beep boop._

                John twitched, pausing in his type before continuing from his case notes.   _Hearing must be going_ , he thought.  _I must be bored._    Sherlock was clearly getting to him.

                 _Beep boop beep boop beep boop._

                “Okay, I’m definitely not imagining that.”

                “No,” Sherlock murmured, “you’re not, but if you’d be so good as to silence that ridiculous ringtone, I might be able to get some work done.”

                John groused indistinctly, but left the sitting room all the same to ascend the stairs.  For all he was sure that Sherlock was preoccupied with a particularly rousing go of Angry Birds, he knew the man would be hell to live with if he didn’t get his way immediately.

                The sound only increased in volume once John reached the landing.  It had been vaguely annoying from a distance, yet as he grew closer he was struck by an aching sense of familiarity, and not a little dread.

                 _Beep boop beep boop beep boop._

                John had only ever heard one thing ring out that way in all his years, but not in years.  His body knew better than his mind, for he’d rushed through the door and slammed into the wardrobe ahead of his decision to do just that.  He yanked at the box, tossed out things without value and things priceless to grab the hard clasp of metal sunken to the bottom.  The face of the communicator was beeping red and blinking—for him.

                He stared, dumbfounded.  “Oh.”

                It didn’t sound nearly so brilliant when he said it.

                 _Beep boop beep boop beep boop._

                John hadn’t been an active ranger since he was a uni student, but some things never changed.

                He pressed the reply button and responded, “Alpha, this is John.  What’s up?”

                While the response was long in coming, John was happy to wait and too stunned to do anything else.

                “Emergency! Emergency! Report to the Command Center immediately!”

                John’s heart thudded fit to burst.    _Alpha_ , he grinned in disbelief _._  John nodded despite there being no one there to see. “Affirmative. Ready when you are.”

                He was already being transported when he realized that he hadn’t thought to tell Sherlock he was going.

...

                John arrived to silence.  The walls stood blue-black as deep space, the odd light stone flickering in greeting.

                Oh, this place, John knew this place. He knew it better than any place he’d ever lived, certainly better than Baker Street and he loved it more than he’d even loved Kandahar, where he’d been as much himself as he’d ever be.  It was the Command Center, it was home. 

The control panels were dead, save for the odd sporadically blinking light.  The ceilings vanished into the distance high overhead.  The plasma tube that had for so long sported Zordon’s face was deserted.  The entire place was.  The eerie quiet made John’s head hurt and his thigh twinge.  An old wound—and Sherlock was somewhat wrong in that it had been real once—that had ended his time as a Ranger.  They might have been teenagers with attitude, but their bodies couldn’t always keep up.  It had taken his body four years to fail him completely and then he was just a kid who had to try making his way in the world. 

He’d gone to university and medical school, and then, Afghanistan all in the hopes of feeling anything like he’d felt back when.  He found there what he thought he’d always find:

                Nothing else feels quite as good as being a superhero.

…

                John wandered around the Command Center quietly, making an effort not to disturb the tomblike atmosphere of the place.  He couldn’t imagine it had been this way for long.  The world always needed saving, didn’t it, and there was always enough attitude to go the distance.  No, this was wrong.

                He brought his communicator to bear. “Alpha, where are you?”

                He nearly leapt out of his clothes when a cold metal grasper tapped his shoulder.  He spun around to see his old friend, Alpha 5— _Are we still at 5?—_  bending in wait.

                “Hello, John Watson.”

                John laughed and threw his arms around the automaton.  “Alpha, it’s been too long.”

                The held him with affection that belied his pre-programmed strength.  “Affirmative. Twenty years is a very long time.  Welcome home, John.”

...

                One irate barrage of texts from Sherlock and a confused call from Lestrade (courtesy of Mycroft) later, John was well on his way  to helping Alpha get the old Command Center back in a shape. An attack from deep space, heralded by a young ranger’s betrayal had done this. Overwhelmed by the damage, Alpha had done the only thing he could: he’d called Zordon’s former protégés home.  So far, John was the only one to respond.

                He ended up on his back underneath the communications console, stripped wires stinging his bare hands. He’d always be a bit rubbish with modern technology, because he’d cut his teeth on this stuff.  John had learned about tech that was literally out of this world; he couldn’t see forcing himself to adapt to something so much more primitive.  Controls sparked and sang and whined, and John tutted in response.

                “Shhh, it’s all right. I’ve got this.”  He fused wires with expert speed and re-routed fried circuits through working conduits.  He heard the surge in his head, felt the power-up in his bones, and didn’t jump at all as somewhere another old communicator sounded.  His heart gave a squeeze and he laughed.  Twenty years gone and he laughed at a sound no more complex than a mid-nineties’ music player calling his name.

                 _Beep boop beep boop beep boop._

                He had gone to war, he had held lives in his bare hands, but underneath all that, John Watson was still a power ranger, True Blue as the suit he’d worn.  He always would be.

                Once a ranger, always a ranger.

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Notes: Based on the original American incarnation of the franchise, the Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers with only passing reference to the later versions. Written in response to this prompt on the BBC Sherlock Kink Meme: John is/was/becomes a Power Ranger. The BAMFery doesn't happen until chapter 2.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own any characters recognizable as being from Power Rangers and Sherlock. They are the property of their actors, producers, writers, and studios, not me. No copyright infringement was intended and no money was made in the writing or distribution of this story. It was good, clean fun.
> 
> If you guys wanna talk/flail/flop with me on Tumblr, I'm [sententiousandbellicose](http://sententiousandbellicose.tumblr.com).


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